The air in "Beelze-Bub's Grotto" was thick enough to chew, a cloying mixture of roasting sinner-flesh, expensive cologne, and the faint, ever-present ozone crackle of hellfire sconces. It was a pretentious shithole in the Gluttony Ring, all polished obsidian tables and chairs carved from the bones of something that probably screamed a lot during the process. Looming, multi-armed waitstaff glided between tables where the Ring's elite gorged themselves, their laughter a sharp, discordant sound against the low thrum of infernal jazz. The time, always a nebulous concept in the eternal twilight of Hell, felt particularly stagnant—a perfect moment for everything to go to shit.
Loona sat stiffly in a plush booth, the initial buzz from the expensive demon-blood wine having long since curdled into a cold, hard knot in her stomach. She’d gone all out for this. Fuck, she’d actually tried. Her fur was brushed to a pristine, snowy sheen, every strand in place. She’d even applied a little makeup, using a dark kohl to accentuate the fierce crimson of her eyes and a deep maroon lipstick that didn't feel like her at all. It was a performance, and she was starting to feel like the punchline.
Across from her, Vortex looked the picture of relaxed indifference. The massive, scarred hellhound was leaned back, one muscular arm draped over the back of the booth, his dark gray fur a stark contrast to the white of the seat. He idly swirled the contents of his own glass, a faint, placid smile on his muzzle. The silence between them had stretched from comfortable to taut, a rubber band about to snap.
"It's just fucking weird, Tex," Loona finally growled, her voice low, the words grinding out like broken glass. She gestured vaguely with a clawed hand towards the opulent room. "All this. A month in, and you bring me to a place that screams 'trying too hard'. What's the angle?"
Vortex's single good eye flicked towards her, the scarred one a permanent reminder of a past she didn't fully know. "No angle, Lo. Just wanted to do something nice for my girl. Is that a crime?" His tone was even, too even. It was the same chill vibe that had drawn her in, but now it felt like a wall.
"Your girl," she repeated, the words tasting like ash. She'd been stewing on it all night, a gnawing suspicion fed by a stray comment from one of Verosika's hanger-on succubi and the way his "Dorito" had been face-down on the table all evening. "Funny way of showing it. You've been jumpier than a sinner on a pike-fence all night. And don't think I didn't notice you 'going to the piss-corner' three fucking times. You texting Beelzebub? Seeing if the Sin of Gluttony is still hungry?"
The placid smile on Vortex's face tightened at the edges. "The fuck, Loona? We've been over this. Bee and I are done. That's ancient history."
"Is it?" she snarled, leaning forward, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. The table creaked under the pressure of her clenched fists. "Because it doesn't feel like ancient history. It feels like you're still on her goddamn leash. Or is it someone else? One of Verosika's backup dancers? Who is it, Tex? Who's got your dick so twisted you can't even look me in the eye while you're sitting across from me in this overpriced fucking tomb?"
That got a reaction. Vortex's eye narrowed, a flash of genuine anger breaking through his cool facade. "You're being paranoid. And fucking insulting. I'm here with you, aren't I?"
"Are you?" Loona shot back, her tail lashing violently behind her, thumping against the booth. "Your body's here, but your head is somewhere else entirely. I'm not stupid, Vortex. I can smell the lie on you. It reeks worse than this place."
"Maybe you're just smelling your own insecurity, baby," he retorted, his voice gaining a sharp, condescending edge. "You always do this. You get a good thing and you just have to pick at it until it's bloody and broken. Can't just let something be nice, can you? Gotta find the fucking darkness."
His words hit her like a physical blow, striking directly at the deep-seated fear she fought every day. That she was the problem. That she was unlovable. That she ruined everything she touched. The heat of shame and rage flooded her system, making her vision swim. She wouldn't cry. Not here. Not in front of him.
"You know what? Fuck you," she hissed, her voice trembling with barely suppressed fury. "Fuck you and your 'nice' and your fucking secrets."
She stood up so fast the table rattled, glasses clinking. The entire restaurant seemed to go quiet for a moment, dozens of demonic eyes turning towards their table. She didn't care. The performance was over. The makeup felt like a mask of mud on her face. She fumbled in the small, beaded clutch she'd brought—another thing that felt alien in her claws—and pulled out her "Dorito." Her hands were shaking as she unlocked it, ignoring the low growl from Vortex.
"Loona, sit the hell down. You're making a scene."
She didn't even look at him. Her thumb scrolled through her contacts with frantic urgency, past Blitz (who would just panic and make it worse), past Moxxie and Millie (too much fucking questions). She needed one person. The one person who knew her before all this bullshit. Her thumb hovered over your name, , and she tapped the message icon.
The words were blunt, stripped bare of any of her usual bravado. 'Need you. Come get me. Beelze-Bub's Grotto. Don't wanna be alone.'
She hit send and shoved the phone back into the clutch, finally turning her blazing gaze back to Vortex. "Go to Hell, Tex."(ironic as fuck) It was the most redundant curse in all of existence, but it was all she had.
She turned on her heel, the sound of her footsteps echoing in the hushed room as she stormed towards the exit, leaving him sitting there. The dress she wore, the one she’d hoped would make her feel powerful and beautiful, now felt like a costume for a play that had just ended in disaster. It was a long, figure-hugging sheath of crimson velvet, with a slit that ran up to her thigh, revealing the sleek white fur of her leg and the straps of her fishnets. The back was daringly low, showcasing the elegant line of her spine and the top of her tail's base. It was a dress meant for a confident hellhound on a romantic night out, not for a humiliated and heartbroken one fleeing into the sulfurous night.